


Rule of Three

by scvdder



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alcohol, Canon-Typical Violence, Mutual Pining, OT3, Other, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Canon, Sexual Tension, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-11 01:23:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13513818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scvdder/pseuds/scvdder
Summary: Chronicling the relationship of Gaby, Napoleon & Illya throughout their lives. Each chapter is a different period from a different POV.A/N in comments.





	Rule of Three

_I._

When Gaby finally slammed the door closed behind them, Napoleon was starting to worry that his lip had burst from him biting it so fiercely. Illya released Napoleon onto the couch with as much grace as he could muster -- while Illya wasn't weak by any means, he'd been forced to carry Napoleon bridal-style for some minutes while sprinting back to the safehouse with Gaby. The sofa groaned under Napoleon’s weight but no one paid any mind to it.

 

"Gaby, get me towels and the medical box," Illya barked, and she hastened to follow his instructions. He turned back to Napoleon and spoke with an almost tender voice. "How are you feeling?"

 

Napoleon's mind was ablaze. The searing gash in his leg was consuming Napoleon, he couldn't conceive of caring for anything else.

 

He grunted in response.

 

There was a second pain in his thigh: barely for a moment, merely a pinprick. Napoleon blearily opened his eyes to see Gaby move away and Illya replace her position by his thigh.

 

Napoleon made to respond verbally but even that felt beyond him so he merely nodded twice which seemed to suffice. Illya leaned over Napoleon to assess the damage. If Illya's expression was anything to go by, it wasn't looking good.

 

Gaby returned with a toiletries bag in one hand, and her shoes in the other – having lost patience with how much the heels slowed her down. She sat beside Illya, by Napoleon's head and wiped Napoleon's hair from his forehead. Gaby cooed to him but it does nothing to comfort the pain in his leg. "This is going to hurt, cowboy," he said, looking into his eyes as if sizing up Napoleon's response, "but I need you to stay with us." And with that, Illya started work on his wound. Napoleon felt a series of sensations, each more unpleasant than the next even as the pain was fading: a pair of tweezers are digging around inside Napoleon’s leg; Illya pulling the bullet out from deep in Napoleon’s flesh; the sick tug on Napoleon’s skin as Illya stitched it back together again.

 

Finally, Illya fell back to sit on the floor, wiping sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “Alright, Cowboy?”

 

“Of course he’s not alright,” Gaby snapped, moving in to double checking Illya’s handiwork. “But he’ll get over it.”

  

Napoleon closed his eyes and let Gaby and Illya’s words elude him until they softened to a reassuring hum, when he came to, Gaby was lounging on an armchair by Napoleon’s head and Illya was cross-legged on the floor, facing them. Each had a half-empty glass of gin in hand and Napoleon saw a third on the ground. As Napoleon reached for it, Illya realised he stirred, cutting himself off mid-sentence to ask. “You alright, cowboy? You did just get shot.”

 

“Not for the first time,” Napoleon said, “but it sure has been a while.” A brief silence fell, each uncomfortably forced to remember their own mortality. Spies liked to believe they were immortal.

 

Now that Napoleon had his wits about him, and the pain had somewhat abated, he noted that the blue corduroy beneath him had an ugly dark smear underneath his injured leg, and Illya had left his bespoke trouser leg in tatters. Not that he really cared for the loss, he’d take it over being dead any day. However, the rest of the small, dank flat was unchanged: the dim light hang from the water-marked ceiling, the cheap painting of a boat on the wall, the other various suspicious stains around the place. It was too bad that they weren’t closer to the hotel they were supposed to be staying in when Napoleon got shot.

 

Napoleon shifted onto his elbow and took a swig, humming appreciatively at the slight burn in his throat. “Well that was fucked,” he said.

 

Gaby chuckled. “Shit, yeah. I’m still surprised we made it through.”

 

“Healing is going to be a bore. I suppose I’ll have to try to outdo myself for imaginative ways to extract my revenge on Waverley,” Napoleon said, only half-joking.

 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Gaby said, “It’s not the worst mission I’ve ever done.” She took a generous swig and noticing Illya and Napoleon’s expectant silence, she continued: “I once had to seduce a diplomat and he wanted me to blow him while he let ants crawl on him. I was fine so long as they didn’t get on me but he was actually turned on by it.”

 

Napoleon processed this. “I’m surprised I haven’t heard of that fetish. Oh, but no good spy has strong principles. We’ve all done things in the bedrooms of our targets that we’d never dreamed of doing, don’t we Peril?”

 

Illya was impassive. Napoleon gasped. “What, _never?_ Your comrades have _never_ asked you to seduce someone for a mission? How could they ignore such an asset?”

 

“No of course they haven’t,” Illya bristled. “This is not the Russian way.”

 

Napoleon, emboldened by the liquor (and the reassurance that Illya already had a headstart) leaned closer to Illya and said “not even a man?”

The words had lost Napoleon’s previously playful tone and fell hard and unmistakable into the following silence: an offer.

 

There was a beat. Illya held Napoleon’s steady gaze. “Why, have you?” he whispered, barely daring to speak lest he break the spell.

 

Napoleon smirked. “Plenty of times. Though not that my bosses know – they don’t condone that behaviour. But I’m not fussy.” Napoleon looked up at Gaby and winked. Her cheeks were slightly flushed from the combination of sexual tension and alcohol.

 

“Really?” Illya breathed.

 

“Yes,” he replied simply. Then, ever so slowly, Napoleon leaned over the side of the couch and inched closer to Illya until he gently kissed Illya’s neck. Napoleon puled back to look into Illya’s eyes, noting both the naked desperation and the paralising fear. Illya was barely breathing. Finally (consummating a year of waiting, observing, plotting, pining) Napoleon kissed Illya square on his soft lips. Illya’s hand instinctively creeped into Napoleon’s hair and greedily grabbing a fistful. Napoleon moaned softly when but all too soon it was over: Illya left the room, slamming the door to the neighbouring bedroom shut.

 

Silence. Napoleon hadn’t moved: still embracing the empty air, the slammed door echoing in his ear.

 

“Jesus,” Gaby said. Napoleon looked up at her, her eyes still turned to the bedroom door. “You must have hit a nerve.” Napoleon made a vague noise in agreement. Mentally shaking himself, he moved back to lie on his back on the couch. All sexual tension had evaporated, replaced only by a discomfort. Despite the year they’d spent together, the three were still emotionally guarded. Illya’s rejection stung more than Napoleon could have predicted.

 

Neither Napoleon nor Gaby knew how to react. With the loss of other distractions, the bone-deep ache in Napoleon’s thigh began to resurface.

 

“I’m surprised,” Gaby finally said with a sigh. “I really thought you were getting somewhere with him.”

 

“Evidently not,” Napoleon said sourly. He finished his first glass of gin as Gaby poured something like her fourth. He was strongly tempted to reach for the bottle to drink until he no longer felt the ache of Illya’s retreat but even Napoleon wasn’t keen on meddling with the anesthetics.

 

“Sure, but he was way more responsive than other times,” Gaby said.

 

Napoleon froze. _That meant…_ “There were other times?”

 

“Oh, it’s nothing really,” Gaby assured him. “A series of near misses. Nothing worth your interest happened.”

 

“Oh but this _is_ interesting. Gaby’s got it in for _Illya,_ the _commie_. Oh that’s brilliant, although I really don’t blame you. However, this isn’t a good position for me… I’m something like a third wheel now.”

 

“Don’t be daft,” Gaby said firmly, “I just said he was more interested in you than he’s been in me.”

 

Napoleon made an unsure noise but didn’t argue the point. “But what about you? Am I truly that unappealing?” he said melodramatically.

 

Gaby avoided his gaze, abashed. “No.”

 

In Illya’s room, something crashed, making both Gaby and Napoleon jump. Gaby makes to check it out but Napoleon put a hand on her arm and motioned for her to be quiet and listen. At first, Napoleon couldn’t hear anything, much less an intruder.

 

Then, there was a moan. Not loud but undeniable and undeniably one of pleasure. As soon as Napoleon recognised Illya’s gentle moans for what they were, lust rolled over him. His hand burned where it still touched Gaby’s skin but he didn’t have the capacity to move. Illya continued, his moans gathering momentum until he came. Napoleon heard the rusty springs of the mattress groan as Illya shifted.

 

Napoleon heard his heartbeat in his ears. Gaby got up, cheeks ablaze. “I, uh, I think I should— It’s late. You ought to rest up,” she stuttered.

 

“Of course,” Napoleon said.

 

Gaby leaned in for a hug but Napoleon feinted and kissed her chastely on the lips. This time he moved away first but as she walked away to the other bedroom, she had a pleased smile on her lips. Best not to neglect anyone, Napoleon supposed.

 

 

* * *

 

  

_II._

“Shit, just wake up!”

 

Napoleon was being shaken, and not gently. Blearily, he opened his eyes to see Gaby still in her cotton pyjamas, frazzled hair falling out of its ponytail, looking alarmed.

 

“Wasswrong?” Napoleon asked, closing his eyes again and already starting to doze.

“Illya is _gone_.”

 

Napoleon sat up straight. The door to Illya’s bedroom gaped open and through it, Napoleon could see the empty bed. “Wha—“ Napoleon faltered. He didn’t know what he wanted to ask.

 

“I don’t know,” Gaby said, combing a few stray hairs back behind her ear. “I got up to get a glass of water and check that you were doing alright or if you needed ore medication and I saw his door wide open. There’s no trace of him. But it’s okay because I put a tracker on his coat, we just need to follow it.”

 

“You— _What!?_ ” Napoleon exclaimed, incredulous. “Gaby you can’t track him, surely that’s an invasion of privacy or something!”

 

Gaby gave him a sharp look. “I wouldn’t track him if I didn’t need to.”

 

“Well,” Napoleon said, trying another route, “he took his coat! And he didn’t wake me up, so there couldn’t have been a struggle. I’m sure he just went out for some air.” He was trying to reassure her but he was also painfully aware that leaving the flat now was not a good idea.

 

He didn’t need a medical professional to tell him that running around on his wounded leg would be suicidal.

 

“I know, Solo,” she said, tears forming in her eyes, “but we have no way of knowing for sure and we don’t know how long he’s been out. Who knows who he could have run into – or worse, maybe we were followed here. We tried our best to keep a low profile on the way but we were rushed, who knows. He might be okay but are you willing to take that risk? His life may be at stake.”

 

So that was that. Within five minutes, Gaby and a doped up Naoleon were leaving the safehouse with a new outfit for Gaby, fresh trousers for Napoleon (which took teamwork) and a makeshift cane. Clasping their coats close to their bodies, Napoleon and Gaby stepped out onto the cold street.

 

“Over here,” Gaby said, leading them to the pool of warm light underneath a streetlight. From her breast pocket, she procured a gadget, which looked much like a compass except the pointer was decidedly pulled east. Gaby followed it a few kilometres, Napoleon limping along closely behind. The streets were tight-knit and multiple times Gaby started following down an alley before realising it was a dead end.

 

Soon after Napoleon started really panicking that he may be further damaging his numb leg, Gaby paused. The compass pointed to the doorway of a dingy basement club. It surely wasn’t legal for the bar to still be open at this time but it was well-hidden enough that it was probably wasn’t interested in gaining attention rom tourists or the authorities – there was no sign by the door, which was some steps down from the pavement. The only indication that it was a pub was an unassuming sign reading _The Prince Albert_ and the thrum of voices coming from within. Gaby paused at the top of the stairs and Napoleon gratefully took this opportunity to slump back against the wall, catching his breath and taking his weight off his leg.

 

Gaby looked up from her compass to peer at him nervously, torn between her worry for Illya and her worry for Napoleon. “We– we have to go in, Napoleon,” she said regretfully.

 

Napoleon nodded. After catching his breath a moment more, he headed to the door and opened it. “After you.”

 

After following Gaby inside, Napoleon surveyed the room. The smell was ghastly and the room dimly lit. It was not as empty as one might suppose given the time ( _4:00am_ on a Thursday), clusters of people punctuated the room and their low talking saved the pub from falling into silence. Napoleon and Gaby’s appearance had drawn the attention of many people in the room and many of the glances were quite suggestive. A number of women were wearing more revealing attire than might be strictly appropriate given the weather.

 

After asserting Illya wasn’t present, Gaby made straight for the door beside the bar at the other end of the room. Just as her hand fell on the doorknob, a man stepped out from behind the bar and out his hand out to keep the door shut. “Problem?” he asked with a gruff voice.

 

Napoleon sized him up. He was clearly past his prime with wrinkles setting in and greying hair but he was still quite built – the man was also probably quite skilled in disposing of unwanted patrons in the bar. Typically, taking him out wouldn’t be much of a problem for Napoleon, but he was incapacitated and they were trying to keep a low profile after the close shave.

 

“Sorry,” Gaby said, putting on a placating smile and letting the tension drain from her body as she took on the role, “but my friend is in there and we really need to see him.”

 

The man smirked, as if he understood some subtext to her words. “Right,” he chuckled. “Got a, uh… _friend_ in mind or are you not fussy? We’ve only got Stefan and James in tonight but I can see if Julian can come in if that’s who you’re after.”

 

Gaby was stumped. “ _What?_ ”

 

The humour drained from the man’s face. “I’m sorry you must be mistaken.” He stepped between Gaby and the closed door. “I think you ought to leave.”

 

“No,” Gaby said icily, dropping the act immediately. “My friend is in there and we are _going_ to get him. Now as a tourist I may not be as well versed in the law of this country but even I am not confident it is strictly legal to have a bar open at this hour, and especially not as a front for a brothel. Now I can call the police and shut this place down or you can let me through this _goddamn_ door and get me to my friend.” The man was stunned into silence. Unlike Napoleon or Illya, Gaby’s rage didn’t blind her – it made her sharp as a blade. Dealing with her was like playing with a fire so intense you couldn’t tell if it was hot or cold. Her stance was collected but her voice murderous.

 

Napoleon hoped he’d never be on the receiving end.

 

The man chewed it over but realised it was useless. With a heavy sigh, he gave in and let them through the door. Beyond was a dimly lit hallway with water damaged walls and doors numbered one to ten with cheap plaques. Leaving the man to watch them by the pub door, Gaby and Illya followed the compass until it finally pointed to a door. _Room 6_.

 

Napoleon tried the handle and it swung open to reveal two figures: a black woman sitting on the edge of the double-bed attaching her stockings to her suspenders and Illya lying nude and sated on the bed. The woman noticed the intrusion and gathered her clothes and moved past Napoleon to leave the three alone.

 

Inclining his head to Gaby, he murmured, “So it’s not your gender that’s the issue.” The scold on Gaby’s face quickly sobered him. He cleared his throat pointedly.

 

Illya’s eyes snapped open and he sat up straight. He blinked up at them. “Napoleon,” he said, dazed. “Gaby.”

 

“Hello, Kuryakin.” Gaby said coldly. Now that she realised there were no kidnappers to direct her anger at, Illya would have to face the brunt of it alone. “Put your clothes on, we’re going home.”

 

For once in his life, Illya did as he was told without complaint (albeit rather drunkenly). Napoleon caught himself admiring Illya’s body and forced himself to avert his gaze. Gaby stalked back to the street to await them there.

 

They left the pub under the hostile watch of the patrons, prostitutes and bartender and got into the first taxi they saw, saving Napoleon the walk home.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_III._

 

Napoleon woke up a full hour before either of the others, being the only one not suffering from a hangover. He spent this precious time alone as he often did: reading a spy pulp novel. This particular one he had stolen from a target’s apartment. He doubted she needed it where she was. Napoleon wasn’t quite sure what drew them to him. They were terrible, of course, in terms of plot and prose and character and… well just about everything, but there was something surreal and extraordinary in reading an outsider’s imaginings of his life. Often, they were misinformed and ignored the 75% of spy work which was really just blending in or stalking, but Napoleon found he related better to these characters more than many of the real people he’d met who didn’t lie for a living.

 

And occasionally the erotic scenes were good.

 

When Illya finally emerged, the bags under his eyes were exhausting to even look at but he was dressed and hungry. “How’s your leg?” he asked, busying himself with the toaster and kettle.

 

“The stitching’s holding up but the whole area is really swollen and bruised from last night. Honestly, I think we’re lucky I didn’t tear it open-“ Illya slammed the kettle on the bench. Napoleon waited for Illya to speak and when he didn’t prompted, “what is it?”

 

“I never meant for this,” he angrily, looking down at the bench. “You must know.”

 

Napoleon was saved from having to react by Gaby’s entrance. Illya went back to making tea quietly while Gaby made herself cereal with lukewarm long-life milk.

 

Illya gave Napoleon a plate with buttered toast, avoiding Gaby’s gaze as she ate at the small dining table, and returned to the kitchen. “Tea?”

 

“Yes, if you would be so kind,” Napoleon said through a mouthful of bread.

 

Illya hesitated. “Gaby?”

 

“Yes,” she said stiffly.

 

A minute later, Napoleon swapped his empty plate with a steaming mug and Illya set down with his breakfast beside Gaby and passed her a mug. For a while they were silent: llya out of shame and Gaby out of wrath.

 

Finally, Illya seemed determined to break the ice. “Did you sleep well?” he asked, courteously.

 

Gaby gave a cruel laugh, almost a bark. “Not really.”

 

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

 

Gaby gave another mirthless laugh and with a clatter, Illya put down his cutlery. “Gaby, please,” he said, finally facing her. “If you want to talk about it do, but really I don’t see a problem. I am an adult, I don’t need a chaperone to go out after dark.”

 

“Can’t you see? THIS ISN’T ABOUT THAT!” Gaby shouted, finally releasing all her pent up anger. “Our line of work is dangerous and you know that! You can’t just do that to us! We are a _team_ Kuryakin, we have each others’ backs, we look after each other when someone gets injured. I get it, you have needs, desires, fine. And if Napoleon and I can’t fulfill them, that’s okay, but you need to tell us if you’re sneaking out to get our dick sucked!”

 

“What I do with my dick is none of your business!” Illya said indignantly, returning her ferocity.

 

“Okay, it’s not. But where you are _is_. Your safety _is_. We had to leave the relative protection of this house to go hunt you down because we had no way of knowing if you’d been kidnapped or beaten or anything. And Napoleon shouldn’t be on his leg for a week, at least. Not only could it seriously damage his leg to be all over town searching for you mere hours after _being shot_ , but he’s slow and practically defenseless.” Gaby waited for a response from Illya but when none came, she got up and all but threw her dishes into the sink.

 

Illya released a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry, Napoleon,” he croaked.

 

Napoleon waved away the apology. A part of him was surprised he wasn’t mad like Gaby (after all it was he who was bedridden) but the rest of him was too busy riding the gentle high of the painkillers. “I know, you were drunk and made bad decisions, it was just poor timing. Gaby will get over her hangover and by tomorrow it will be forgotten.

 

“Is your leg really that bad?” Illya asked, settling into the armchair next to Napoleon.

 

“I’ll be fine,” Napoleon said.


End file.
